Beady black eyes reflect the leaves –
dead leaves, brown leaves, forgotten leaves.
To dust and dirt, they feed the land.
He scuttles over them, heard but unseen.
There is little in this devoted landscape
to feed his tiny soul.
Some days, the sun shines hot.
Others, the wind is unbearably cold.
Still, he waits and shivers and sleeps,
anxious for winter’s chill to fade
and the bright days of summer